


The Case of the Ghostly Guests.

by moth2fic



Series: The Malfoy Connection [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Lewis (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Established Relationship, Lewis Summer Challenge 2015, M/M, No Spoilers, Part 4 of a series, Wizarding world in Oxford, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:56:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moth2fic/pseuds/moth2fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Hermione's parents have friends near Oxford. Their old house seems haunted but Ron has checked it out with full auror powers and says there are no ghosts. Can Lewis and Hathaway find the culprits before they do real harm? Innocent knows the couple and is keen to have her department help them, especially when things take an ominous turn. And will James be forced out of one of his closets in the process?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Ghostly Guests.

**Author's Note:**

> I have done a bit of recapping of the previous stories, so that anyone new to the series has some hope of realising what's going on. I hope I haven't bored readers who already know this 'verse. 
> 
> Many many thanks as usual to Fictionwriter for the fast and efficient beta, for finding those pesky typos and extra spaces, and for the hand-holding, and last but not least for the reminder to post... 
> 
> Thanks, too, to MistressKat and pushkin666 for setting up the challenge, and for gentle persuasion. And for dealing with my total confusion over dates and availability etc. Brilliant mods and good friends.

"You mean they allow children to knock at strangers' doors asking for sweets?" Draco's outrage was almost tangible.

"Parents usually lurk in the hedges," said James, apologetically.

"New-fangled American habit, if you ask me," said Robbie. "Goes with the whole mindset of letting people carry guns, etc."

"They didn't do it when you were young?" James sounded surprised and Robbie sighed. This discussion was making him feel old.

"We had Halloween parties," he said. "We told ghost stories and bobbed for apples; my mam used to ice biscuits with little skulls. And there was Mischief Night. Young thugs would go around removing gates, putting sticky stuff on door knockers, that kind of thing; sort of tricks without any treat option. Though in some places I think that was nearer Bonfire Night." Draco and James both just stared at him. 

Really old. It wasn't so much a question of magic as of some kind of generation gap that he wasn't usually aware of. They were sitting in the garden of Draco's beautiful and decadent manor house, admiring the roses and chatting in a rather desultory fashion about the cases they'd solved where the wizarding and muggle worlds had collided. 

Robbie had not known about the collision during the case of the disappearing don. It was the beginning of his relationship with James, or rather his new relationship with James, because of course they'd had a work relationship prior to that. He remembered the case fondly for that reason alone – and for the happy outcome that had meant nobody ended up dead. 

He had found out in time, during the case of the assassinated aunt. At first he had been - how did it go? 'Bewitched, bothered and bewildered', just like in the song and that old TV show. Though he had to admit that neither James nor his cousin Draco went in for nose-twitching. Then he'd thought maybe magic could be used in police work, but James had disabused him of that notion. No spilling the beans to muggles. There was some kind of retcon thing wizards could do, although Robbie realised retcon was Torchwood fantasy and not quite the reality of the actual wizarding world. They'd used that truth potion to get a confession, but from a witch, not an ordinary member of the public, even a criminal one, and James had grabbed the witch's wand in some bizarre fashion, but... well, and the aurors had removed evidence that could have had them on a charge of police harassment or intimidation, but only because the entire case had been inextricably entwined in the affairs of wizards. 

They'd reached the case of the Halloween horror and James had recalled Robbie saying it couldn't have happened in the old days because Samantha would never have been out trick or treating. Which, when James had repeated Robbie's remark, had sparked Draco's outburst.

'Muggles never cease to amaze me,' said Draco, which Robbie thought was rich, coming from a wizard. 'You have weird notions about other festivals, too.'

'Weird notions?' Robbie could hear the offended note in his voice but couldn't stop it. Here, he was the sole line of defence on behalf of his entire species. He made a mental note to ask James later about species, and whether he had that right. Probably not. 

'Santa Claus.' Draco clearly didn't expect to have to elaborate but Robbie pushed.

'What about Santa Claus, then?'

'Encouraging children to think it's fine if an elderly stranger comes into their bedroom and messes with their garments and leaves presents...' Draco sounded genuinely horrified but James was making gasping sounds that were almost certainly suppressed laughter. Robbie tried to explain about Saint Nicholas but Draco seemed to think that was even worse. 'And,' he went on, 'there's that business of rabbits laying coloured eggs.'

This time, it was Robbie's turn to laugh. 'That's a modern American idea, too. And I think the rabbit only hands the eggs out. Ordinary chickens lay them and ordinary people colour them. When I was a child...' He stopped, aware that he had been saying that rather a lot, and that it made him sound like some kind of grumpy old man. 

'What did you do at Easter when you were a child?' James sounded interested so Robbie continued.

'We came down to breakfast to find eggs piled in the centre of the table. Sometimes we'd have helped to colour them, either boiling them with onion skins or painting them with the dyes you can use for cake icing, so they weren't a surprise. Then we'd play at jarping.'

'Jarping?' The cousins spoke together, sounding startled by the use of what seemed like a foreign word. Perhaps it was. Perhaps only Northumberland and Durham jarped their eggs.

'We'd all take an egg in our fist and tap each other's. The winner was the one whose egg didn't break or craze. And in theory the winner won the crazed egg. But my mam made us give them back because she wanted everyone to have their fair share. She'd give us a little prize of some kind - maybe chocolate. And then she'd hold some eggs back for Easter Monday. We used to go to Hexham to the egg rolling outside the abbey. The eggs were rolled down a grass slope and again, the winner was the one with their egg or eggs unbroken, or that went furthest.' 

'Eggs are a symbol of new life, and of resurrection,' mused James. 'They suit the theme of Easter, both the Christian story of the tomb and the pagan stories.'

'Which are?' said Robbie. He had some half formed ideas but knew James would have in-depth knowledge.

'Some people say Easter owes its name to Eostre who might or might not have been a pagan goddess but others say it's to do with Easter usually falling in Eosturmonath, the month of opening, buds unfurling, that kind of thing. Whatever, eggs do hatch or open round about Easter if they're left to themselves and not placed in incubators. And a cracked eggshell recalls the cracked opening of the tomb. So: Easter eggs.'

'And rabbits?' Draco was scornful.

'The originals might have been hares,' said James. 

'March hares: mad as,' said Robbie, and they all laughed. 

It was a warm afternoon and Robbie felt wrapped in sunlight and happiness. The manor gardens were beautiful, James and his cousin were good company, and it was Sunday, so work was over for one week and not yet begun for the next. Of course, there could still be an emergency, but he hoped not. 

No emergencies happened that afternoon apart from a peacock squabble that left some exquisite feathers on the lawn and an atmosphere of avian disquiet but Robbie left Malfoy Manor with a sense of foreboding that had no apparent cause. 

lhlhlhlhlhlhlhlhlhlhlhlhlhlhlhlhlh

'James.' Robbie shook James gently then not so gently.

'Mm - wha...?'

'There's an owl at the window. It's pecking the glass. Wake up. '

'Oh. Well, open the window, then.'

'What??'

'Let it in. There are some treats in a box in the cupboard near the cereal.'

'You can't be serious.'

'Perfectly serious. Oh, all right.' James, thoroughly awake by now, flung himself out of bed and stomped across to the window, which he opened, allowing cool dawn air to brush goose pimples onto Robbie's skin. The owl, instead of flying off in terror, as Robbie had expected, hopped rather sedately over the sill and sat on the corner of the chest of drawers, looking somehow expectant. 

James disappeared and Robbie, trying not to stare at the owl, heard rustling in the kitchen. His partner came back with a fistful of something unidentifiable. The owl could obviously identify it very well and gave a small satisfied hoot before tucking into whatever was laid in front of it. While it was eating, James detached a letter which he brought back to bed. It had been written on thin paper of the kind Robbie remembered being used for airmail correspondence, and had been rolled tightly into a tube that had been clipped to the owl's leg. 

Robbie spluttered. 'Owl post? Tell me that isn't real. Tell me I'm dreaming. We do not have an owl gorging itself in our bedroom. You have not just had a letter delivered by owl.'

'Hm? No, you're not dreaming and yes, this is a letter by owl post. If you stop fretting and let me read it I'll find out why someone is contacting us this way.' Thus effectively silenced, Robbie reverted to contemplating the owl, which had finished its snack and seemed to be waiting for something else. A reply, perhaps? 

'It's from Auror Weasley.' James sounded quite sane and quite wide awake. The owl looked satisfied and hopeful at the same time. 

'Can't he use the phone, like other people?' Robbie was never at his best before 6.00.am and the owl itself contributed to his annoyance but he would have had to admit that a phone call at that hour would have been no more welcome, just perhaps easier to believe. 

'He probably used his owl as a matter of course,' said James. Then he sighed. 'Robbie, wizards use owls the way we use postmen. It's normal - for them.'

'But James, you're a wizard. Are you telling me we need a pet owl?'

'No. I contact Draco by phone and I don't communicate with anybody else in the wizarding world at the moment. So no.' 

Robbie wondered if 'at the moment' had really been as loud and reverberating as he thought. Then he found himself considering the vagaries of the UK postal system and wondering if owls might not be an improvement. At that point he gave up thinking altogether and lay back, assuming, correctly, that James would tell him all about the letter if he waited patiently.

'His wife needs help. Well, not his wife, her parents, and not them, their friends. They live just outside Oxford.'

'And just how does this involve us and why does it necessitate an owl delivery?'

'Because they're muggles and because Ron automatically sent an owl with all the details rather than risking me not answering my phone or being unable to talk if I was at work.' James had grabbed a similarly thin piece of paper from his drawer in the bedside table and was scribbling. 

'Do I get to hear the details? And what are you doing?'

'Saying we'd be delighted to look into the case and inviting them round to talk about it. And yes, I'll tell you the details in a minute. Of course I will!' The last pronouncement was in answer to Robbie’s gasp of indignation. Then James rolled the paper, inserted it into the tube, re-clipped that to the owl's leg and opened the window again. The owl gave a small bow, hopped out and flew off.

'Are they specially bred owls, or are they just specially trained?' Robbie couldn't believe he was more interested in the postman than the letter but it was only 6.15.am and he was not yet quite in work mode. 

'I have no idea. I'll ask Draco. And no, I don't want one. It would be hard to justify even a small owlery in a house like this and I don't need one anyway.'

Robbie dismissed ideas of an owl for James' birthday; the thought of an owlery was the clinching factor. 

They were both completely wide awake by now, and trying to get another half hour's sleep would be pointless. After showering and dressing they faced each other over the breakfast table, early enough to talk about a dozen letters before work. 

'Hermione Weasley,' said James, 'is muggle-born.'

'Like you?' 

'No, I'm a Malfoy on my mother's side so only half muggle. Hermione's parents were ordinary non-magical people. Dentists. Probably didn't know what had hit them when they produced a magical child and got an invitation for her to go to Hogwarts, never mind all the accidental magic she'd have evinced before then. Stuff they'd have had to explain away. But they coped admirably and Hermione is both extremely intelligent and very well-adjusted. According to Ron. According to Draco she's a bookworm and bossy with it. She works for the Ministry of Magic.'

'Like Ron and Harry?'

'Well, yes, but she isn't an auror. She's some kind of researcher and no, I don't know what. But she's in constant touch with her parents, the Grangers. They live somewhere further north, I think, but they have these old friends in Oxford. Not dentists, but university friends, all the same. Dr and Mrs Coates. He's an academic, not a medical doctor. Apparently they moved recently, bought a house beside the river, intended for their retirement. His retirement is looming, though she's likely to work a while longer - teaches, according to this, but in a school, not at the university. Hermione's close to them. And they're having problems with the house.'

'We're police, not estate agents, James.'

'Not those kind of problems. They think it's haunted.'

'Haunted? You're joking, aren't you? I mean, academics who believe in ghosts?'

'I didn't actually say they believed, but it sounds as if whether they originally did or not they do now. Trouble is, Hermione got Ron to go and check it out and it isn't.'

'Isn't what?'

'Haunted. Which is why,' James continued quickly, seeing the look on Robbie's face, 'Ron is asking for our help. There are definitely no ghosts, and yes, ghosts are real and usually just a nuisance, but there aren't any because Ron has checked. So this is some kind of human scam to make them think it's haunted and he wants us to look into it.'

'Which is all very well, and don't think I won't return to the topic of ghosts later, because I will, but Oxford Police don't investigate mock hauntings unless there's a crime involved.'

'But you and I could, after work. We'd have a look round, see if we could pick up any clues as to who was doing it and why. Then perhaps Hermione and Ron could frighten them - the haunters, I mean.'

Robbie sighed. This wizarding business was taking over his life. Well, not really. Months would go past while the nearest it came to him was James' magic practice and the occasional broken plate, or a visit to Malfoy Manor and unseasonal exotic flowers. Then in one morning, before he had intended to be awake, there was an owl delivering post, a check for ghosts, and a threat to frighten whoever was pretending to haunt the house of a friend of a friend of... James. James, who had only recently learnt of his magical heritage and was trying desperately to fit into both worlds. As well as Robbie's world. 

lhlhlhlhlhlhlhlhlhlh

Hermione sat on Robbie's couch - his and James' couch now - legs curled under her and hands clasped. Ron straddled one of their dining chairs, his arms and chin resting on the back

'Uncle Matt and Auntie Katie aren't what you'd call impressionable people,' said Hermione. 'He's an engineer of some kind - an academic engineer but still a practical sort of man - and she's a science teacher. If there are things going bump in the night they certainly haven't imagined it, and he'll have investigated properly. Well, as properly as possible.'

'They're your aunt and uncle?' James clearly hadn't expected that.

'Not really. Courtesy aunt and uncle.'

Robbie nodded. Growing up, he had been encouraged to call all his parent's friends aunt or uncle, though James and Ron obviously thought this was an odd idea.

'I've looked for ghosts,' said Ron. 'There aren't any. Well, not quite true; there's a boy in the boat house who just hangs around dripping on anyone who gets too close, but he doesn't go up to the house, and doesn't know about anyone who does. I've checked for magical signatures of any kind but there's only the kind of background noise you'd expect in an area like this.'

'Oxford, you mean?' James looked as dubious as Robbie felt. The city had never seemed anything other than worldly, full of ambitious students, even more ambitious lecturers, and a lot of very solid history and architecture. 

'Well, there are wizards at all the main universities,' said Ron. 'They just mind their own business as a rule. You wouldn't notice them.'

'No,' said Hermione. 'They do research into all kinds of things, but they don't transfigure anyone or anything, and they're a quiet lot, on the whole. The worst they might do is charm an audience at a lecture to get extra applause.'

'What about their kids?' Robbie had a feeling about this though he wasn't sure yet what kind of feeling it was. 

'The ones with families tend to be quiet, too, and the kids end up going to Hogwarts unless they're squibs. So during term time, at any rate, there won't be many kids around. Only little ones, and whilst some of them might be prone to accidental magic it usually manifests itself around the nursery school paint pots or the swings in the park. I've never heard of younger kids playing at haunted houses. Have you, Ron?' As her husband shook his head she went on. 'Uncle Matt and Auntie Katie haven't got any kids. I'm the closest thing to a relation, I think, and of course that's not a blood tie. My parents are really worried about them; Auntie Katie rings Mum every time there's an incident and she's beginning to sound almost hysterical.'

'So what form do these incidents take?' If they were going to investigate, Robbie supposed they should do it properly, ask all the right questions from the start, maybe take notes.

'Banging. Really loud banging, and then doors and windows opening of their own accord. Lights, sudden and moving, and shadows, of course, to go with them. The dustbin overturned and rubbish strewn everywhere - and no, not foxes, because last week there was a chicken carcase and it was still intact. Minus the meat, of course, but that would be because Auntie Katie had got it all off.'

'Is it an old house?' Maybe there'd be a prosaic explanation in badly fitting or warped frames. And a gust of wind in the yard to make an overturned dustbin join the catalogue of events. 

'Not really. It was, but they had it gutted when they bought it. Brooks and Wood did the conversion and they're supposed to be the best.' 

They were. If they'd fitted the new doors and windows nothing would be warped, nothing would rattle, and there'd be precious little chance of anyone breaking and entering stealthily, let alone with bangs and crashes caused by draughts or clumsiness. 

'Have either of you heard or seen anything?' Robbie supposed it was too much to hope for.

'No. Mummy got Auntie Katie to invite us for a weekend, to see if we noticed anything, but nothing happened while we were there. But then apparently nothing happens most weekends; this seems to be a weekday haunting. Or non-haunting. And we can't spend weekdays there on the off-chance.'

'So they want our help?'

Hermione blushed. 'Not exactly. It's us that are asking for help. They don't know we've asked. We suggested involving the police but Uncle Matt thought it would all sound too odd and as there hasn't been any actual damage yet, the police wouldn't spare anyone to spend time there either.'

'That's all very well, but unless there's a case we have no authority, and we'd need their permission to poke around.' Robbie could just imagine asking Innocent for blanket permission to investigate a supposed haunting. 

'I might have told them some friends would look into it for us - Oxford friends,' said Ron, mumbling the words and blushing redder than Hermione. For a moment Robbie could see past the aura of magic and authority and sense how very young these people were. Younger than James, of course. Classmates of Draco's, he thought. And magic was their first recourse when anything was wrong. Since Ron couldn't find anything they would have no idea what to do. He sighed. 

'All right,' he said, 'we'll take a look, and we won't let on that we're police if we can help it. But it'll have to be evenings, and it'd be best if James here was the one you introduced as a friend - more your age group, after all.'

All three of his listeners smiled, Hermione and Ron with thanks and James with a mixture of admiration and ruefulness. 

'So,' said Robbie, turning to his partner, 'how are you going to explain me?'

'Since you're as old as Methuselah?' James had laughter bubbling behind the words. 'You're a great deal younger than Hermione's parents' friends, I imagine, and we give them a judicious helping of truth. You're a colleague and friend, we're civil servants in the daytime, and I've brought you along as an older and wiser head.' 

lhlhlhlhlhlhlhlhlhlh

In the end, it wasn't necessary to do anything of the kind, because when they got to the station the next day, Innocent called them to her office with some degree of urgency. 

'There's a death that needs investigation,' she said. 'Not immediately reported as murder but I have suspicions. Matthew Coates was an Oxford academic and his wife is a friend of mine. Dr Coates went out to see what or who was making a nuisance of themselves in his garden, tripped, and hit his head on a sharp stone in the rockery. He died last night in hospital. It was reported as an accident, but because I know Mrs Coates, she phoned me. They've been having a lot of nuisance at Beeches - that's their home - and she isn't sure whether Matt fell or was pushed, but feels that whoever was out there was responsible for his death. And no, I don't expect you to arrest a fox for manslaughter, but I did promise her we'd see if there were any humans involved. If there were...'

'...you'd hope the CPS would try to pin manslaughter on the culprits,' said Robbie, ignoring the identity of the victim for the moment.

'Yes.' Innocent sounded very definite. 'It's time a message went out to society at large. Irresponsible and reckless behaviour endangers lives. Even if the charge didn't stick, the message might.'

'And your friend would know you'd taken her seriously and done everything you could.'

'I hope we'd take all complaints seriously, DI Lewis.' But Jean frowned as she spoke. She was skating on thin ice, and she knew it. Her intentions were entirely honourable but given the propensity of the CPS to dismiss cases that were less than cut and dried, she would probably have given less attention to a complaint from someone she didn't know.

James was looking interested, smug, satisfied, and altogether too happy about the death of Dr Coates. Well, Robbie amended to himself, not about the death, because he knew James held all life in very high regard, but about the surrounding circumstances that had led to their magical case becoming their police case. As they left Innocent's office with a promise to do their best, sent on their way with a brisk admonition to get onto it straight away, he decided he agreed with James. This was the perfect solution to the problem of helping their wizarding friends on police time. 

lhlhlhlhlhlhlhlh

Beeches was beautiful. Brooks and Wood had done a sensitive job of restoring it. Everything that could be fixed was clean and new, but the bones of the house stood out, Georgian, probably, old and alluring. The sash windows had been replaced; shutters were visible behind the sparkling glass, tucked carefully into the thick walls of window embrasures. The fanlight over the front door gleamed, lording it benevolently over a brass knocker in the shape of a fox's head. The brickwork was mellow, sunset coloured and perfectly pointed, just as it would have been when the house was first built. The beeches that gave the house its name were opposite the front of the building, across a gravel drive, a lawn and a small stream. There were both ordinary trees with their almost translucent green leaves, and a weeping variety with copper foliage. 

James and Robbie paused a moment to admire, then attacked the fox, hoping Katie Coates was both in, and willing to talk to them. They hadn't phoned first.

It took a few minutes to explain that yes, they really were police officers, sent by Jean Innocent, although they were also the civil service friends Hermione had promised. Since Hermione had at least given their real names it was confusing rather than embarrassing. 

'We couldn't run a proper police investigation before something happened,' said Robbie. 'We didn't want to let Hermione and Ron down, so we offered to come and have a look on our own time. But unfortunately, events got ahead of us.'

'Well, you're here now so I should be grateful.' Mrs Coates tried to smile but both men could see it was only for politeness' sake. 'Of course, it would have been better if something could have been done while Matt was still alive. It's like those councils that put zebra crossings in after a few people have been killed. Oh, I'm rambling. Take no notice. I suppose you want to see where he fell?'

They went out again, into the front garden, along the path under the windows, their feet crunching softly on the gravel. They reached the corner of the house and turned towards the back door, which, as in so many houses was in fact on the side. There were bins - the usual plethora of different colours denoting the things that were allowed, paper and card, bottles of any material plus aluminium trays, garden rubbish, food waste, and ambient - or in other words everything else. There was an old fashioned metal dustbin, too, its lid half off, and its interior clearly used for ash from the fires. Plastic bins didn't allow for hot ash and in any case, it would probably be best kept for the garden. The path widened into a paved yard, with a small kitchen garden off to the side, bounded by what had once been a coach house and stables and were now a garage and shed respectively. The vegetable plot had a low wall, and there was a mounting block in the middle. Someone had tried to scrub it but it was ominously dark. 

'We were in the lounge,' said Mrs Coates. 'We heard the usual fuss, doors, windows, chains rattling and so on. Yes,' she said, noting their expressions, 'it was Hammer House of Horror at times. Overkill, in a way, because it took a while for us to take it seriously. Then we heard the bin lid - the ash can, not the others - and Matt said something about thinking he'd catch them at last. He ran out of the front door and round, the route we've just taken. I stood at the door, you see. I was waiting to hear him shout to me to get the police. Instead, I heard a sort of thump, and then a groan.'

'So you went to look.' Robbie's gentle comment was not a question. 

'Yes. I grabbed the poker from the hall fireplace first. I thought he'd be so annoyed if I confronted someone with nothing to protect myself. But there wasn't anyone else there, just Matt on the ground near the block, and...well, I ran back indoors and phoned for an ambulance. He was still alive but there was nothing... he died on the way to hospital. Heads aren't designed for hitting stone.' She looked so forlorn and almost puzzled by what had happened. 

'Chief Superintendent Innocent asked our pathologist to take a look, Mrs Coates. She confirmed that there was nothing anyone could do, and that the injuries were consistent with a fall, not aggravated as they might have been with a push. But whoever caused all the noise was responsible for Dr Coates running out like that, so they were ultimately responsible for his death. We want to find them, not just to put your mind at rest but to protect other people. If he or they have terrorised you, they might have other victims in mind.' It often helped, Robbie thought, to mention other possible victims. It made people remember the wider world, feel protective about others, think more sharply.

'That's why I phoned Jean. It won't bring Matt back, but it might put a stop to their nasty tricks. They were here last night, too, but I didn't go out.'

'I should think you didn't. We certainly don't want you falling too. Now, we need to know as much as you can tell us about the whole business: when and how it started and everything you can remember.' They moved back inside and sat in the lounge, a pleasant room on the corner of the house, with windows in two walls and a large fireplace in the third. 

lhlhlhlhlhlhlhlh

It had begun a couple of months after they'd moved in. At first, there were stupid things - they'd thought it was kids messing about. It was just before Halloween and the house had been empty while the renovations had been taking place, so it seemed a likely explanation. So they had taken no notice of the rattles and bumps and faint moans, thinking it would all stop when the festival was over and when it was obvious the house was lived in again. But it hadn't. By Christmas they were experiencing at least weekly 'attacks'. The rattles and other noises continued and then windows and interior doors seemed to open of their own accord. There were shadows but nothing recognisable and they could just have been the play of light when the doors or windows moved. Lights switched on and off, too. There was a fall of soot in the lounge fireplace but that could have been something the sweep they'd employed had failed to dislodge earlier. The bins were ransacked regularly. They'd reported it, but both the police and the council had shrugged collective shoulders and mentioned urban foxes. They'd suggested they report again if any actual damage occurred. 

'And of course it never did, till it was too late and too horrible,' said Mrs. Coates. She'd made a good witness, with meticulous details, clear recall, and even a diary that she gave them. She pointed out that they'd hoped to catch the culprits and were collecting evidence for when they did.

'And then Hermione thought you changed your minds about who or what the culprits might be.' James wanted, Robbie assumed, to get the 'haunting' scenario out of the way. He didn't think for a moment that a ghost had caused Matt's death, but they did need to reassure the widow. 

'It sounds stupid, even to me, but we really did begin to consider something unnatural. Matt was an incredibly realistic and practical man, a typical engineer, if you like, but he couldn't see how the sound effects and the movements of the doors and windows were being effected. And of course, once you eliminate the impossible...' Her voice tailed off and she didn't complete the quotation.

'I think Conan Doyle meant you to consider the improbable natural explanation, not something outside our understanding,' said James, gently. 

'But there were no wires, no cameras, no props of any kind. And there were the rumours...'

'Rumours?' This was a new element in the story and Robbie was interested.

'The postman said the last people who lived here had had what he called ' funny 'speriences.' They were the last owners but they emigrated to Spain or somewhere and we aren't in touch, I mean we weren't and I'm not... We bought from an agent and they dealt with everything. The people at the paper shop said the same as the postman. But everybody seemed to think it was just kids. The thing is, there are virtually no kids around here other than tiny ones in prams, and for them to come persistently for years or at least for a few years and then a gap during the sale period and the renovations... And then I listened to a programme on the BBC about poltergeists and, well, I began to think, and so did Matt, and we called our friends and they said Hermione might be interested so we called her and she and that nice husband of hers came to see us but of course they work and it was a weekend and nothing ever happens at weekends...'

Robbie was glad she had run out of steam. It was evidently distressing for her to recall all the things that had been said or hinted, and their reactions as a couple, when the whole saga had ended in Matt's death, however natural that death was.

'I'm not surprised you started believing in things you couldn't see,' he said. 'Anyone might, faced with a conundrum like that.' She looked grateful as he went on. 'We'll do our best to get to the bottom of it all. I'd like to start by having a really good look round. And yes, I know you and your husband would already have done that but sometimes an outsider, especially a trained observer, can pick up little things that add together to form a solution. James, why don't you take outside and I'll have a look round indoors.' 

James headed for the front door, and Mrs Coates looked between them, not sure what her role was to be. 

'I think the sergeant can cope with the grounds,' said Robbie. 'Maybe if you gave him the keys to any outbuildings? Then you can give me a guided tour of the house.'

'There's a bunch hanging in the hall. And no, before you ask, nobody could reach them from the letterbox in the front door, even with a long wire. We'd heard of that kind of thing. They're just outside the lounge door, between that and the hall fireplace. You wouldn't even see them from the front door.’ And sure enough, they were on a small rack in the deep niche that led from the hall into the lounge. All the rooms boasted similar niches; all the doors were deep-set. James took the keys, and departed. Robbie looked expectantly at Mrs Coates. 

'Lead on,' he said. He got a faint smile in answer; she recognised the misquotation and knew it was inappropriate, too. Just intended to lighten the atmosphere a little, and in that it succeeded.

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The hall was huge, almost another room, with a fireplace, stairs, three rooms leading immediately off it, a kind of passage that went nowhere with a cupboard under the stairs, and a coat rack, and then a pillar with an old-fashioned fixed telephone, and a corridor beyond it. 

They crossed to the room opposite the lounge. It was a dining room, with the big windows they'd seen from the outside path, on the same wall as the front door, and with a hatchway into the kitchen. The other room, reached from back of the hall was a study, with two desks, computers, bookshelves, and all the paraphernalia of two busy academics. The corridor led behind the dining room to a large kitchen with a scarlet Aga, and of course the hatch to the dining room. There was a rack of the old fashioned bells that had once been used to summon servants, and a speaking tube beside the hatch. Apparently the bells were now ornamental but had rung when the noises were at their height. On the back wall of the corridor doors opened onto a stone-floored pantry with a marble slab as well as a modern fridge freezer, and what Mrs Coates called a scullery, with a washing machine, a large sink, a tumble drier, and an ironing board. The 'back' door was set on the side wall between the kitchen and the pantry, and led to steps to the yard, passing a coal house on the right. The coal house was full of bagged smokeless fuel, no doubt for the main fireplaces, and Robbie established that the Aga had been solid fuel but had been converted to use gas. There was also a small cloakroom with a W.C. 

'Not really convenient, but the plumbing dictated where it would be best,' said Mrs Coates. 'This is immediately below the bathroom which is at the end of the upstairs corridor. There were already facilities here and we only had to upgrade them.'

He was only getting his bearings at the moment so they headed back to the stairs. These had a landing just over half way and then turned back on themselves to get to a long corridor with six bedrooms, a box room, a bathroom and a separate W.C. None of the bedrooms was en suite, which struck him as unusual after the amount that had been spent on the place, but his guide told him they were happy to keep the house roughly as it had always been.

'We agreed if we ever came to sell, the purchasers could put small bathrooms in the larger rooms,' she said, and then her face clouded over. 'I haven't decided what to do yet. I might sell. It's a big house to live in alone, especially if you can't get the noises stopped.'

They were heading downstairs as James came in, shaking his head.

'Garage, stables, some kind of workshop, all in a straight line with the garage attached to the back wall of the house. Then the vegetable garden and a small cottage on the other side. Probably a lodge of some kind, maybe servants' quarters once upon a time. 

Robbie turned to Mrs Coates as they all re-entered the lounge. 'Is it part of your property?'

'No. I believe it was, right up to the late '60s. But it's completely separate now. It's called The Lodge, in fact. The people who live there are very nice - university people, you know?' Robbie hoped she didn't notice their involuntary exchange of glances; in Oxford's police experience, university people could be anything but nice at times. 

'We ought to interview them,' he said. ''Did you ask them if they'd seen or heard anything?' 

'Oh no. They're away at the moment - they're often away overnight when he does guest lecturing somewhere and she goes with him - due back tomorrow, I think. But yes, we did ask them a few weeks ago and they hadn't any idea. I suppose you do have to speak to them but I can't think they can help. Their name's something like Mugabe only not. Foreign,' she added, as if it wasn't obvious from her difficulty with the name. 'But extremely nice.' 

Robbie winced inwardly and knew James would, too. Typical English covert xenophobia, though expressed so pleasantly you had to be careful not to blink or you'd miss it. He wondered how Hermione coped with it, though maybe she just blinked a lot. James had told him a little about the wizarding war, and the way 'muggle-borns' or 'mudbloods' like Hermione had been treated by some of their peers, including, James had admitted, his cousin. It seemed prejudice didn't notice magical boundaries. Or educational ones, he thought, recalling the 'university people' comment. He made a note to find out the correct name and call on the owners of it.

'Have you had anyone working for you here apart from the people who did the renovation?' That was James, covering yet another angle. 

'No. I do all my own cleaning, and Matt did the garden. Well, there was the sweep who did the chimneys, but he was brought in by the renovation people. And of course there are the people who come to collect the bins, deliver the post, the papers, things like that. And a milkman. We have, that is I have, a daily delivery. I don't like plastic, do you?'

It seemed a non sequitur but James fielded it bravely. 'Glass bottles are becoming a thing of the past Mrs Coates, but I expect they alter the flavour.'

She bestowed a brilliant smile on him, and Robbie was somehow included in its glow. 

'What about enemies, Mrs Coates? I mean, if this turns out to be kids, it could still be personal, rather than just general mayhem, but somehow I don't think kids could manage the effects you've described. So that leaves us with people who might wish either of you harm or distress. I'm not saying they set out to kill your husband, but they certainly set out to harass.'

'Nobody I can think of. Matt was popular in his department with both staff and students. And he was about to retire so there couldn't have been anything like jealousy. I'm happy at the school where I teach, and we don't, that is we didn't...' She stopped for a moment. 'We didn't socialise much. We went to faculty parties, went to the theatre and concerts, kept in touch with one or two old friends like the Grangers, and with their children - birthday cards, wedding presents, that kind of thing. And Christmas, of course. We weren't exactly dull, you see, but we didn't have many friends in Oxford, and no likelihood of making enemies.' 

Robbie sighed. 'We'll need to get some of our lads round to look at your wiring, under your floorboards, things like that. And we'll be contacting Brookes and Wood. See if anything could have been put in while they were working. We won't leave any stones unturned, Mrs Coates, but it might take us a while to find anything out. We'll keep in touch. Are you staying here or...?' He left the question open, not sure if she had anywhere else to go, though he supposed she might go to stay with a colleague or perhaps with the Grangers for a few days once the funeral was over. 

'I'm staying.' She looked almost mutinous, as if people had tried already to talk her out of the idea. 'For now, anyway. Matt would have wanted me to, I think.' 

''Surely your husband would have been most concerned about your safety,' said James.

'Yes, but as I'm not going to try to chase these people, however much noise they create, I'm not likely to be in danger. And I need to be here for the funeral; if our friends come from a distance they need somewhere to stay and it doesn't make sense to ask them to use hotels when I have six bedrooms. You'll let me know as soon as you know anything?' After their nod of agreement she continued. 'You can have people pull the place to pieces if you like, just not on Thursday because that's the funeral. And so long as you put it back together afterwards.'

With that, they had to be satisfied, and they left to organise some kind of detailed search of the house. Mrs Coates had assured them that she'd heard nothing in the night since her husband's death, and didn't expect to, till the next week at the soonest. The haunting or whatever it was had never been a nightly occurrence.

As they drove back to the station to report to Innocent, it struck Robbie that they had learned precisely nothing. 

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That evening, they contacted Ron, to tell him about their lack of progress. Or at least, James contacted Draco, because they knew how to get hold of the aurors but Ron had left for home and they had no known home phone number. The auror who had answered the phone had seemed less than interested in handing out personal information. This was as it should be, in any organisation, but left them at a loss. Robbie's suggestion of borrowing an owl from a bird sanctuary was treated with contempt. 

Draco contacted someone or other, possibly Pansy, who contacted George, who contacted Ron who must have told Hermione to deal with it because the next thing they knew, there she was, in the living room, having apparated in immediately.

'We only wanted,' said James, his voice muffled by virtue of the fact that his head was in his hands, 'to tell you we have nothing to tell you. You didn't have to rush over here.'

'I didn't rush. I've just put dinner in the oven and there's an hour to wait so I thought I'd use it productively. And 'nothing to tell' tells us something, really.'

'You mean you actually cook?' Robbie didn't mean to sound sarcastic; it was just that the idea of an academic witch spending time in the kitchen on ordinary tasks struck him as unlikely.

'I like cooking. It's a bit like potions, really, with equally disastrous results if you don't concentrate.' She looked at James for confirmation but he shook his head.

'I didn't go to Hogwarts, you know. I never studied potions.' It was just a statement of fact but Hermione looked pityingly at him.

'All right, so you had a very deprived education,' she said, and Robbie almost choked on his coffee. 

'So,' Hermione continued, 'how much don't we know?'

'Everything,' said James. 'The only things we do know are how and where he died, and the bare facts of the noises and lights. We haven't found anything to tell us how they were organised, or who might be responsible. We have a team looking at the house structures, and tomorrow we're going to talk to the building firm who renovated the house, and to the neighbours.'

'You mean Professor Mbanefo and his wife? Nice people. But Auntie Katie never mixed with them much and they're away a lot. He does some kind of prestigious lecture tours. I doubt if you'll get anything useful from them.' Hermione looked dubious.

'Well,' said Robbie, 'then at least we'll know there's nothing useful, which is useful in itself, according to you.'

'Yes.' She sighed. 'I'd have thought if it was kids there'd have been all kinds of information by now.'

'We've just about ruled out kids. The effects are too sophisticated for the sort of resources they'd have.' 

'But we ruled out ghosts,' said Hermione. ‘Or at least Ron did. I just sat with Auntie Katie while he had a look around.’

'Which leaves us with adults who know exactly what they're doing and have a specific agenda. I think we need to know why and how before we can find out who, and that's the line we're intending to investigate.' Robbie hoped Hermione would be satisfied with their plans.

'Thanks, anyway. Mummy is still worried but at least you're looking into it. Mummy and Daddy are coming down for the funeral, of course, and I'll come over. I asked for the day off work. Ron probably won't come; he only met them once or twice.' She cocked her head on one side as a mild buzz sounded from a pocket in her jeans. 'And now, I need to go so that I don't burn the chicken.' She looked at their clock and stood. Closing her eyes in concentration she disappeared, leaving Robbie ill at ease, as he always was in the presence of apparation, and James slightly amused both by Hermione, and by Robbie's reactions.

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There was nothing they could do until tomorrow. Their own dinner was simpler than a timed chicken dish though Hermione would probably have told them that timing cooking was easy. Robbie transferred some steak from the fridge to a frying pan while James created a salad out of odds and ends: lettuce, cucumber, green pepper, avocado, and spring onions.

'Shall I add tomato?' He stood back admiring the mixture so far. 

'No need,' said Robbie. 'It looks fine as it is. A green salad should be green, after all.'

James had finally moved in with Robbie a few weeks earlier. They had decided that anyone who queried the arrangement could be fobbed off with a landlord/tenant explanation. It wasn't likely to fool any regular visitors but then they didn't have many of those. Robbie felt happy to explain to his family if necessary, and the only other occasional guest was Laura, who might have to be told before she guessed. That way they could appeal for her silence in advance of giving her any information. 

Sharing all meals was still a novelty, and they were getting used to each other's style of shopping and cooking. They still sometimes tripped over each other in the kitchen, Robbie attributing this to James's long legs, but it didn't occur to them to take turns at preparing food; working together was by now natural and automatic. 

'Deprived education,' said James, almost snorting over the dressing he was mixing. He gave an extra hard shake to the container as Robbie grinned. 

'To them, not being able to create a mixture that could turn the salad purple probably counts as deprived. Now all you need to do is set an invisible timer and apparate somewhere and come back in seven minutes by which time the steak will be cooked to perfection.' James raised both eyebrows but they both preferred their steak well done and he didn't complain. Nor did he apparate. 

The nights were getting lighter and they sat for a long time after their meal with the curtains open, watching the dusk shadows deepening. The cat joined them, pressing its nose to the window, and probably thinking about all the mice that would be out and about in the twilight. There was a bowl of food and another of water in the kitchen, and Robbie resisted any idea of letting his pet out to hunt. He could only be glad that sound feline sleep had prevented any altercation with the owl. 

They watched the news, and some kind of political discussion that got nowhere. When James got up to draw the curtains Robbie got up too.

'Leave them, lad. We'll have plenty to do tomorrow so we might as well have an early night.' At James's raised eyebrow he grinned. 'OK. Maybe not that early, but we don't need to stay in here.'

'Especially not with the curtains open.'

'We're not really overlooked, but no, I wouldn't feel comfortable and I don't suppose you would, either.'

'You mean sleeping in a potentially public place?'

'I wasn't thinking of sleeping yet.'

'You weren't?'

'James, shut up and come to bed.'

'That's a really romantic invitation.'

'It isn't an invitation, it's a demand. Come on.' Robbie headed for the bedroom, not even glancing back to check James was following. He was fairly sure they would soon be in bed, together, and he felt an anticipatory frisson of pleasure. The sex might be natural, but it was by no means as automatic as the cooking or the work partnership. It was still new, amazing, glorious, and Robbie felt humbled knowing he could count on holding James in his arms. He knew he sometimes sounded abrupt, and yes, less than romantic. He didn't quite trust himself to say everything he thought, or to express himself in a way James might find 'soppy'. His brusque manner was a defence against the flood of sweetness that threatened to overwhelm him every time he looked at his young partner. 

He drew the curtains in the bedroom straight away. The sky was a beautiful colour, deep blue with a few stars already visible, but the bedroom was more likely to attract stray glances from passing traffic, especially if the light was on as they undressed. They could do without the sky, he thought. The view indoors was more enticing. 

James had followed on his heels; of course he had. He walked straight into Robbie's arms and the undressing didn't take long. 

The sex, on the other hand, took a satisfactorily long time. Robbie found it necessary to explore every sensitive part of James all over again, just to check the sensitivity was still as acute. Ears, collar bone, hips, inner thighs. James reacted as expected to the kisses and fingertip strokes afforded each one, and then pointed out that it was only fair he should be allowed the same privileges with Robbie. He spent some time playing with Robbie's nipples, till they were hard and proud, and coaxed a faint moan from him when he cupped his arse in his hands, running his long middle fingers along the crease where cheeks joined legs. 

'What do you want?' He whispered it into Robbie's shoulder. 

'Anything. Anything that involves you. Everything. I don't know. You decide.' 

'But I want to make sure I please you.'

'You do that just by existing.' With James's face pressed against him he could feel those expressive eyebrows lifting. 'You do realise that, don't you?' he said. 

'I try to believe you. I've never been so...appreciated?'

'Believe me.' He chuckled softly. 'This, here, us, me, think of it as the James Hathaway appreciation society.' He smiled when James's arms tightened round him. 'Fuck me?' he suggested quietly, and so James did. 

It was some kind of special heaven, Robbie decided, to lie with his legs raised, his muscles working to clasp James to him, savouring the weight of the man on top of him, and the strength of him inside him. They had decided to abandon the idea of condoms. Robbie had been with no-one else since Val's death, and James, whilst he had indulged in some heavy flirting, had had no sexual partners since before he entered the seminary. They had both been tested - to destruction, Robbie sometimes thought - every time there was blood at a scene, blood they might have touched, blood that might have splattered them, and every time they had even the slightest injury inflicted by a suspect. So now he was able to feel James, just James, with no barrier and no worry, however faint.

They moved in unison. There was still an unfinished quality to their lovemaking, both of them a little shy, not quite believing their good fortune. But they were beginning to learn each other. It was like learning a musical instrument; it was important to stick to pieces at their current level of expertise, practice couldn't help but improve everything, and if there were mistakes, they had realised they shouldn't falter, but carry on, aiming for perfect harmony.

Robbie reached for his cock but James slapped his hand away and stroked him firmly. 

'Mine,' he said, then, 'Come for me, Robbie, my Robbie.' And Robbie soared, melted, fell apart, lay boneless, breathing hard and looking into James's eyes as his lover followed him into bliss. 

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The Mbanefos were back from their, or rather his, brief lecture tour. His wife had tagged along and had enjoyed it very much, thank you. A Nigerian academic lecturing on Caribbean literature in Glasgow had generated a lot of interest, and Mrs Mbanefo had managed a side trip to the museum housing the art of Charles Rennie Mackintosh. They were pleasant, friendly, and the providers of excellent coffee.

'Ethiopian', said Mrs Mbanefo when she saw the appreciative faces of her guests. Then they got down to the business of discussing the reason for their visit.

'We don't really know our neighbours,' said James Mbanefo. Having the same first name as Sergeant Hathaway caused endless confusion and some hilarity when both men responded to any remark addressed to 'James'. 'They haven't been here long and they seem to keep themselves to themselves in what I believe is a typically British fashion. But they would nod and exchange pleasantries when they saw us. We never talked long enough to hear about any troubles. We're sorry to hear about Dr Coates' sad death.' 

They had not known. Robbie and James had broken the news when they had rung the bell and said they needed to talk. The professor had looked suitably sad, but Robbie had noticed that Mrs Mbanefo had gone almost grey with a pinched look to her lips. She was clearly the most shocked of the pair, perhaps more shocked than might have been expected in the case of barely known neighbours. He wondered momentarily why it affected her so badly but turned his attention back to the husband who was speaking.

'An accident, I think you said,' said the professor.

'Yes,' said Robbie, 'but an accident caused by someone or ones acting recklessly. That makes it possible manslaughter and we need to find out as much as we can. You've had no problems here? No night time noises or unusual happenings?'

'None. If we had, I think we might have suspected local teenagers with racist or xenophobic tendencies. That doesn't explain the Coates' experience, I know. In Nigeria it might have been put down to witchcraft.' He gave an apologetic smile as if to say he knew Africa had some customs that would not be considered the norm by British policemen but that he didn't share the beliefs of his native continent. 

'But James...' Mrs Mbanefo stopped, uncertainty playing across her rather pretty features. Given an encouraging look by Robbie and a nod from James, she went on. 'They said 'unusual' not necessarily supernatural or anything of that nature, and there were the letters...'

Her husband frowned and took up the story. 'I hadn't forgotten about those but you're right, I wasn't thinking of them as unusual in this context. We had a number of anonymous letters when we first came here. Threats, general nastiness. When it must have become clear that we were not intimidated, they stopped, but then the offers started, in similar envelopes, with an Oxford postmark, and no, I'm sorry, I didn't keep any of them. In their own way they were as much of a nuisance as the poison pen ones.'

'Offers?' Robbie had no idea what kind of offers might be involved. It turned out they were offers to buy the house, naming preposterously large sums. The hopeful purchasers all signed different names but the professor had suspected the same person was sending all the letters. 

'There was something about the style, the phrasing, as well as the stationery. I wish I'd kept one now.' Mbanefo frowned again.

'I wanted to get a sign - like those 'for sale' signs but one that said 'not for sale',' said his wife, 'but James thought it would just draw attention to the problem and we might get copycat letters from the earlier nuisances.'

'It never ceases to amaze me,' Hathaway reflected aloud, 'what goes on in our area that never comes to the attention of the police.'

'No reason why it should, really,' said Robbie, 'if the victims don't feel in need of help. But it helps us to know about this kind of thing in an investigation like this. So thank you for telling us. Did you ever find out who was at the bottom of it?'

'No,' said the professor, slowly, 'but we had our suspicions. There was a big local campaign - articles in the newspapers and petitions to sign in the shops round here. One of the big supermarket chains wanted to build by the river and this bit of Oxford was their favoured location. They've applied for planning permission, I believe, and the car park would come right up to our garden fence. I thought perhaps they might have wanted more space and been hoping to get our little plot. We haven't had any offers for a while, but of course when they actually start building, if they do, we might have to think again about selling up and moving. I hope not.'

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Armed with a copy of the planning application, the suspicions of the Mbanefos and the results of an interview with Brooks and Wood, Robbie and James repaired to the pub. During the chat with the builders they had quickly realised that during the renovations almost anyone might have had access to the unoccupied house. There had been subcontractors, sub-subcontractors, day labourers, people walking past and showing a general interest, and at times, almost no security. The house and garden had been empty at night, with no alarms, cameras or guards. There had not seemed to be any need.

Access to the property was by the gate at the side of the house leading onto the drive which led round to the front door and then to the coach house. The beeches provided an effective barrier, and the stream led down the fairly extensive gardens to the river. Obviously, anyone could moor a boat by the boathouse and make their way up across the lawns.

'So,' said Robbie, 'we have a possible motive and a possible scenario for arranging things like odd wiring, but the team have come back with a totally negative report about any such wiring or other ways of producing the effects, manual or electronic. They found some oddities, but only things that could have been poor workmanship. I expect even Brooks and Wood have their share of workmen who cut corners.'

'And we're back with the Nigerian diagnosis of witchcraft,' said James, grinning. 'Not as exotic or unlikely as they seemed to think we'd think, at that.'

'A supermarket chain using witchcraft - wizardry, rather - to intimidate people living on land they want to purchase? It doesn't sound plausible, James. I can't see Tesco or Asda or any of them having a resident wizard on the payroll.'

'No, but they'll have a department tasked with putting pressure on people. And someone in that department might know someone who always gets good results. The initiators of the actions don't necessarily always know what goes on in their name.'

'I suppose so. It's going to be quite a slog finding out who's behind it and who they've used.'

'I'd better interview the boy in the boathouse,' said James, ignoring the startled look on Robbie's face. 'It doesn't sound as if Ron took much notice of him but he might know something. And if there's a threat to his chosen haunt, he might be quite eager to tell us.' He finished his drink and rose, ready to go. Robbie followed him.

While James headed for the boathouse Robbie called on Katie Coates, keeping her informed about their progress.

'Except that there isn't any, really,' he said. 'Apart from a suspicion that it might all be connected to a supermarket chain wanting your land. Do you know anything about that?'

'We had a letter, which Matt threw away, and a couple of phone calls. He put the phone down after a moment during the first, and immediately at the second.'

'But they were keen?'

'I suppose so. But they must have got some other land because the calls stopped.'

'That doesn't mean they gave up, just that they changed their tactics.'

'Oh! You mean they might have been trying to frighten us into moving? But how...?'

'That's the part we don't understand yet, but we think we've probably found the motive, and the person or rather the company that set everything in motion. My sergeant is looking into a few possibilities about the methods used, but our team found nothing in the structure to worry you.'

Mrs Coates looked doubtful. ‘I think it's the lack of any actual interference with the bricks, mortar, glass and so on that's the biggest worry. It takes me back to a supernatural explanation and that doesn't sit well with a supermarket somehow.'

Since Robbie had expressed the same doubts himself he was at a loss as to how to reassure her. He hoped James would get something out of the boy in the boathouse. Or did he? Did he actually believe there was a ghost in the boathouse who might help the investigation? He shook his head, accepted a cup of tea from Mrs Coates and sat down to wait. 

When James joined them he seemed preoccupied. He told Mrs Coates he had nothing further to report but that there were more avenues to explore. Then he fidgeted until Robbie felt obliged to gulp his tea quickly and take his sergeant back to the police station where no doubt he would be able to unburden himself without the presence of a member of the public. Although she wasn't exactly a member of the public, more a victim. But it wouldn't do to discuss theories in front of her, especially theories involving magic and a real ghost. 

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‘I’m going to have to contact Draco or Hermione,' said James. 'Hermione, probably, because whilst Draco's my cousin and my magical mentor, he isn't involved in this case whereas Hermione is, and I understand from him that she was considered incredibly clever at school - a real rival, in fact.'

'Nothing deprived about her, then despite the muggle background.'

'Nothing at all. Another plus to asking Hermione is that she's married to Ron who used his auror skills to find there was nothing to find. She'll have some idea what techniques he used and what he might have missed.'

'I think it's me that's missing something,' said Robbie. 'Do I gather you got some information from the boathouse boy?'

'William? Yes, but I don't understand it and I need to do some research before I try telling you what at present is quite a garbled story.'

'William?' 

'Yes. He's quite a nice lad, really. Drowned in the river in a boating accident way back a hundred years ago and has hung around the boathouse ever since. It was the nearest bit of dry land he could find to haunt, but he tends to drip a lot and make it damp. It must be very boring for him; it's never used nowadays.'

Robbie sighed. He hoped James was not going to get any kind of bee in his bonnet about ghost welfare. 

'This whole case is reminding me more and more of that old Scots prayer rhyme thing,' he said. 'From ghoulies and ghosties, and long-legged beasties, And things that go bump in the night, Protect us, O Lord, And from the fury of the Northmen, deliver us.' We seem to have everything except the Northmen.'

'I've never heard that last line,' said James. 'And it was always, 'Good Lord deliver us'. Not quite such a formally expressed prayer.'

'Vikings, I assume,' said Robbie. 'My dad used to say it all to me at bedtime.'

'Not very comforting.'

'Well, he always laughed, and I always thought the prayer would protect me. I can't remember what I thought the Northmen were then. But I repeated it faithfully after him.'

'At any rate,' said James, 'it's more likely women the Scots would have feared. And a woman in this case, too. 'The monstrous regimen of women' to quote John Knox since we're on the subject of Scots and religion.'

'I've never understood that. They didn't have regiments of women, did they? Or was he thinking of Amazons?'

'Regimen, not regiment. It means rule or reign and he was referring to Elizabeth 1 and Mary Queen of Scots. But I wasn't referring to any queens,' he added hastily, before Robbie could get embroiled in further confusion. 

'But you were referring to women?'

'At least one woman. William was adamant. She was all over the grounds at night while the builders were busy, but he never saw her face. Ghosts are no better at seeing in the dark than the rest of us. The odd thing is that he says she went under. That's all he would say. Kept stressing that she went under, every night, and I have no idea what he meant. He wouldn't elaborate, just dripped a bit more and faded into the river for a while. But he did say he sensed magic when she was around.'

'And Ron said he didn't find any traces.'

'Not exactly. He said he only found background stuff. That's why I need to consult someone.'

'Hermione it is, then,' said Robbie, picking up the phone on his desk and checking his mobile for the number for the Ministry of Magic. 

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'There's plenty of low level magic in Oxford,' said Hermione after she'd apparated into their office, alarming Robbie, not because anyone was watching but because she hadn't been issued with a visitor's badge and there was a high chance of someone, almost anyone, interrupting them. He relaxed when James showed her a picture of one on the computer and she transfigured a fair imitation from a post-it note and a rubber band. Or was it an imitation? Was it maybe the real thing? Would it turn back to its original state in the drawer overnight? He resolved not to ask, just to remember to check.

'Yes, you told us about that when you and Ron came to see us together at the start of all this,' said James. 'But what I need to know is whether the general stuff could mask anything more specific.'

'Possibly. Especially if the witch or wizard was just passing through, and not actually doing any magic. And almost certainly if they went far enough underground.'

'You mean like in the underground library storage rooms under Radcliffe Square?' 

'Yes, anywhere solid and protected like a church crypt, an underground car park, a storage facility, or even a tunnel. They would just have to get far enough away from the entrance. Then it would be hard for anyone to pinpoint anything more than general magic in the area.'

'Eureka!' James' exclamation startled both his listeners.

'There's no arithmancy involved, is there?' said Hermione.

'No mathematics of any kind, to my knowledge,' said Robbie. 

'I was just expressing my delight at realising what William meant.' James' lopsided smile suggested he was pleased with himself and somewhat insulted by their reactions at the same time, which Robbie thought gave him a rather endearing look. 'He didn't mean she went under. I was thinking about the river or about going to sleep. But he meant under the ground. We should look for a tunnel.'

'And Mrs Weasley,' said Robbie, 'if you could possibly spare the time to look with us? We might need more magical expertise than James has yet acquired.'

'Due,' muttered James, ' to my deprived education.' But Hermione either didn't hear him or elected to ignore him.

Sure enough, she put the visitor's badge on the desk before she and James apparated flinging a casual, 'to the boathouse' in Robbie's direction. He placed the badge in the drawer, glad not to have to deal with the front desk and the likelihood of wrong numbers and stray post-it notes. Then he went to the car park and took the mundane or muggle route to Beeches. 

Hermione was already chatting to Auntie Katie when Robbie arrived, and James was not in sight.

'Your partner's gone to the boathouse,' Hermione said, and Robbie wasn't sure which way she meant partner but wasn't about to ask. He thought the aurors probably knew that he and James were a couple, and he thought, though it had never been explicitly stated, that the wizarding world didn't care much about same sex relationships. Of course, the muggle world shouldn’t; same sex marriage was in the process of being legalised and celebrated. But there was still prejudice and caution was still advisable, especially in a profession such as theirs. 

'Auntie Katie says she hasn't heard of any tunnels but that doesn't mean there aren't any,' Hermione said at last, perhaps realising that Robbie, having neither magic nor psychic powers, had no idea what might be going on. 

As she spoke, there was a commotion. The soil in the vegetable plot shook as if there were a small and localised earthquake. Then it erupted and a rather grubby James rose from the depths. 

'I suppose that means there are some,' said Robbie.

'Tunnels? Oh, yes, quite a labyrinth down here,' said James, gripping the edge of something invisible near a row of spring greens and hoisting himself up into the daylight. 'I've had a good look. I think they might have connected the main house to the lodge and the boathouse in the days when priest holes were fashionable. Or maybe just escape routes for Jacobites. The house isn't quite old enough for either but it was probably built on the site of an earlier one. They're narrow and cramped, and dark, of course, but Mrs Coates kindly lent me a torch.' He held it out, oblivious of the fact that it was switched off, and he and Hermione exchanged a look. Clearly, he had made his own light. Robbie hoped Mrs Coates was not particularly observant or assumed James was being careful with the battery. 

'I believe there was a house here before the present one. A Tudor one that burnt down some time in the eighteenth century. Matt was interested but we couldn't find out much. We meant to do some research.' Her face clouded and Hermione patted her arm. 'So there could have been priest holes or something of that sort.'

'And,' said James, 'I found evidence that someone had been cleaning away the kind of rubbish that accumulates in such places. There were footprints, too. They go under the house, and it's quite possible the tunnel comes out somewhere you wouldn't expect. Is there a cellar? I found a door, but it was locked.'

'There's a cellar.' Hermione, of course, knew the house from visits. 'It's quite low-ceilinged and you wouldn't use it for anything but storage. The heating boiler's down there, and Uncle Matt's wine collection. There are doors, but I assumed they just led to more store rooms. Brooks and Wood might know but then again, if they didn't have a key and there was nothing to suggest more than a cupboard, they might not.'

'We could break the door down, with your permission,' said Robbie, and was instantly given permission to do anything he liked if he thought it might solve the mystery and prevent further incidents. 

'Or,' said James, 'we could refrain from doing any damage and just pick the lock.' 

Robbie blushed. He was about to suggest sending for someone from the station then realised that James and Hermione between them were quite capable of picking the lock without lock picks, and that Mrs Coates wouldn't, probably, realise that the average detective didn't come armed with lock picks as a matter of course. And that she would hopefully never mention the matter to Jean Innocent.

'James, why don't you go and investigate from inside the house. Mrs Weasley can show you where the cellar is and maybe help identify the right door to start on. Mrs Coates could perhaps help me find something to fence off the hole in her cabbage patch before anyone falls in.' He didn't wait to see if his suggestions were being followed but set off in the direction of the stable block where he hoped to find something useful. 

Later, when they'd got help from the station, cordoned off the cellar and the garden tunnel entrances with police tape, and left a young constable on guard duty outside the house, knowing he would more than likely end up inside it with tea and cake, Robbie and James told Mrs Coates they'd better report to Innocent, and would be back later.

'At least we know now how they gained access to the house,' said Hermione, following them to Robbie's car and telling her aunt she would phone or visit the next day. 'But we're none the wiser about how they arranged the special effects.'

'If she, and we'll assume it's the woman William saw, got under the house, could she create the effects by magic without adding significantly to the magic to an extent Ron would notice?' James addressed his question to Hermione.

'Probably. If she had been in the house while it was empty and perhaps left things in there - small things like a thread under a floorboard, a little oil in a hinge, and some extra wire in the fuse box - then she could have transfigured those things into tools to open doors, bang shutters, switch lights off and on. But as you said, she would have to be a magic user. She couldn't have done all that from the cellar without leaving traces, otherwise.'

James sighed. 'The footprints go all the way under The Lodge. I can't help suspecting Mrs Mbanefo. Could she be a magic user?'

'There's no reason why not, and even if Ron had sensed magic near their house he wouldn't have queried it. We don't know all the witches and wizards in the country. Some were born or educated or both in other countries and if they don't come to the attention of the aurors we may not know about them at all.'

'They don't all shop in Diagon Alley at some time or other?' 

'Not necessarily. If they already have a wand and don't need robes, they can do without magic shops to a great extent. But even if they went, they could just lose themselves, one more witch or wizard in the crowd. Though I think we're talking witches only, here, aren't we?'

Robbie groaned. 'How are we going to explain African witchcraft to Innocent? Well, to anyone, really. It's as bad as ghosts.'

'Don't let William hear you,' said James as they pulled into the police station car park. 

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This time, to Robbie's relief, Hermione came past the reception desk and got the proper visitor badge on a red lanyard.

'We don't need to explain,' she said. 'We just have to establish that she did it, then either suggest she could have made noises from the cellar leaving the Coates' own imagination to do the rest, or we can give details and then do something about everyone's memories.'

'I like the first idea better,' said Robbie, who found the wizarding attitude to memories breathtaking and bordering on criminal. Especially applied to police colleagues. 

They met with Innocent, who knew Hermione slightly and evidently simply thought of her as the daughter of one of Katie's friends.

'What is it you're doing now?' she asked. 'I think you read chemistry, didn't you?' 

'Yes. I have a civil service research post,' said Hermione, not going into details. 

'Cambridge, was it? Did you ever meet Sergeant Hathaway? You must have been up round about the same time.'

Hermione merely shook her head, refuting both notions without giving anything away, but blushed to the roots of her curly hair as she looked at James. 'Not such a deprived education after all, then,' she said, and James just sniffed. 

Robbie described the tunnels. ‘You see,’ he told Innocent, ‘that gives possible access to the cellar of Beeches.’

‘But could they, whoever they were, really have created all those effects from the cellar?’ The Chief Superintendent sounded doubtful and Robbie supposed she had a point.

‘Psychology,’ said James. ‘Frighten people enough with mysterious noises and you can scare them into imagining they've heard and seen more than they in fact have.’

‘Yes,’ said Jean, slowly. ‘I suppose I can see that happening. It’s like the way witnesses are quite unreliable.’

‘We think,’ explained Hermione, ‘it might be connected with the neighbours. The tunnels connect with their house, anyway.’

‘The Mbanefos? What do we know about them?’ said Innocent. 

James pulled up details about the Mbanefos on his computer. There was plenty about the professor, but his wife was simply given as Dolly Mbanefo, born Dolly Adeyemi. Beyond that she was a cipher, a shadow behind her husband. 

There was a knock at the door and a constable came to tell Innocent some dignitary was waiting for her in her office. When she had left the room Hermione shouldered James out of the way and took his place at the keyboard. She brought up a website neither of the men recognised and searched again. Dolly Adeyemi had been born in Nigeria and had attended Haute Montaigne, a wizarding school in Cote d'Ivoire. She had gone on to a wizarding university near Cairo, then returned home with a degree in architecture, and married James Mbanefo, a studious young man chosen for her by her parents. He was a muggle, and might know little about Dolly's abilities. 

‘Look here,’ said Hermione. She had switched to a site about Haute Montaigne. ‘It says it’s possible for African witches and wizards to hide behind jokes about old fashioned tribal practices, witch doctors, and so on. I hadn’t thought of that. If they hide, they could easily move unseen in the corridors of power in their chosen field. The site says many of them become extremely rich.’ 

‘Did Dolly become rich?’ Robbie wondered if she’d left a life of luxury for a small house in Oxford.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Hermione. ‘It looks as she didn’t manage to find the road to riches before her marriage swept her off to England. He husband laboured for some years at a provincial red-brick university, then he finally gained prestige and recognition at Oxford ten years ago. Dolly never worked but if they’d had money I think they’d have had at least a larger house.’

‘So’, said James. ‘She might well want money, either for them both or for herself, she has the tunnels to give her access to Beeches, and her husband is out lecturing to students here, there and everywhere most of each week.’

‘Not weekends,’ Hermione reminded them. ‘And there were no disturbances at weekends, which suggests the professor was in the dark about whatever Dolly was up to.’ 

'Right,' said Robbie. 'Means, motive and opportunity. Bang to rights.'

'By which,' said James, 'you mean magic, a desire for money, tunnels and time. We'll assume the supermarket people employed her directly or one of their enterprising agents did. And that they promised to leave her house alone while she was busy and make her husband an offer he really couldn't refuse afterwards. I suppose she sent all the letters to her husband to give herself some kind of alibi.'

'Makes sense. Though what would she want the money for, apart from a desire to be rich?’ Robbie found it hard to imagine Dolly wanting money for its own sake. ‘The professor won't be exactly poor, their house is lovely even though it’s small, and they go on jaunts like lecture tours at the university's expense. I gather some of them were further afield than Scotland.'

'It was an arranged marriage,' said Hermione. 'She might have been aiming for independence, maybe even at leaving him.'

'We'll only know if we ask her,' said James. And they returned to the car park, the two magic users electing, this time, to use ordinary transport. The chief inspector popped out of her office to wave them on their way.

'Try to arrest somebody,' she said. 'I want this cleared up as soon as possible. And no, not because Katie Coates is a friend but because we really can't have people frightening other people to death in Oxford, now can we?'

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Robbie hadn't intended to take Hermione with them. Civilians were not welcome at anything that might turn into an interview or even an arrest. He supposed, rather vaguely, that it might be useful to let her go and see her aunt, especially if it turned out that a neighbour had been the ghostly visitor. But somehow they were on the doorstep of the lodge, or rather The Lodge, the little house where the Mbanefos lived, and Hermione was with them, clearly regarding herself as part of the team. 

Robbie coughed. 'You should really go and see your aunt,' he said, knowing perfectly well his voice was not as authoritative as he might have hoped. Hermione looked at him as if he might be speaking something un-English, Dolly's native Yoruba, perhaps, or the Arabic she would have spoken in Cairo. Or the French from Haute Montaigne, he added uneasily to himself. This was a very educated lady they were about to deal with. 

'I think Hermione might be able to help us,' said James, ignoring Robbie's look of betrayal. 'Another witch, you know.' Robbie didn't really know but thought it might be as well to pretend he did. He nodded and rang the doorbell. 

She was alone in the house. Professor Mbanefo was lecturing somewhere or other and might stay for drinks afterwards. His wife was not expecting him home till late. In some ways it made their job easier but if she was guilty it would be even harder to face her husband and give him the news of her arrest. If they managed to arrest her, of course. Robbie's thoughts were swirling with half formed ideas of what an African witch could possibly be able to do, even here, in Oxford, but he tried to clear his mind and continue the investigation as calmly as he could. 

They sat in the rather conventional lounge, its only concession to the Mbanefo country of origin a wall hanging with gorgeous earth tones creating an abstract picture that suggested a tropical location without depicting anything. 

Mrs Mbanefo offered tea, coffee, water, whatever liquid refreshment they would like, and seemed put out when all three of them refused. 

'You said you needed more information about the disturbances next door,' she said. 'I have no idea what more I can tell you.'

'Your husband mentioned witchcraft,' said Robbie, bluntly. Better to take the bull by the horns from the start, or, he mentally amended, in this case the rather graceful gazelle. 'I know you both seemed sceptical but we wondered if you could give us any further hints as to why he even brought the topic up.'

Dolly laughed, a high, forced laugh. 'You can't be serious. I thought the British police would be above such superstitious rubbish. Back in Lagos, now...'

'So the police there would take the suggestion seriously?' James spoke softly but smoothly and Dolly turned to look at him. 

'They might,' she said. 'There are all kinds of beliefs there. Most of them arrant nonsense of course, and the ones that aren't, well, they don't travel well, and they don't survive things like electric light and computers.'

'Really?' Hermione's entry into the conversation shocked Dolly, who must have assumed the woman was merely a constable present to chaperone her in some way. 'I thought Haute Montaigne had a reputation for beautiful grounds with a great deal of light, most of it electric.'

'How do you...?' She stopped. 'Well, as I said, there are all kinds of belief systems and they don't transfer well to British soil. Too much Church of England, too much strong tea, too many shortbread biscuits.' Her eyes were darting from one to the other, trying to see whether they were lulled by her words.

'Oh,' said Hermione, 'you mean we shouldn't be able to do magic here? What a quaint idea.' After she spoke, she muttered something almost inaudible and looked pleased when a cushion on the couch writhed, flowed, and curled into the shape of a cat. It snuggled into the cushion next to it, which mercifully remained unaltered, and Robbie could have sworn that it purred. 

'Tea never seemed to affect me much,' said James, apologetically, then added in a conversational tone, 'Expelliarmus,' just as Dolly's hand moved towards her sleeve. 

Once she realised that two of the three police - she must still assume Hermione was a member of the force - were magic users, and once James was idly twirling her wand, all Dolly's bravado left her. 

'So you already know,' she said. There was a kind of despair in her voice. And then she started talking, telling them everything they needed to know, confessing to the disturbances, to working for the supermarket people, to the night that had led to Matt Coates' death. 

The supermarket, she explained, knew nothing about the magic. She had contacted them after her husband refused the offer for their house. She was desperate for money, and this seemed a way to make sure she could get it. She wanted to leave him. She hated being tied to a muggle who laughed at all mention of wizardry and called it primitive. She hated her parents for forcing her into a loveless marriage, and for their earlier treatment of her. 

'I had that African operation as a child,' she said. 'You know what I'm talking about?' She paused, looking at Hermione who looked back at her with sympathy. 'Something went wrong and I can never have children. Even magic couldn't help. But if I had money I could at least build some kind of life for myself. Here, I'm just Mrs Mbanefo, without any of the love or mutual satisfaction that should mean.'

She hoped that by selling the house or at least by making the sale more likely, she would be in a position to demand money from her James. If she simply left him, he would certainly just stay in the house, and might dole out some alimony, but not much, considering that it would be her decision to leave and there were no children involved. She wasn't sure about English divorce laws, but she hoped, oh how much she hoped. Even her magic was stunted and crippled by her marriage.

At this point, she cried and Hermione ended up sitting with her arm around her while James gallantly offered a pristine handkerchief, something, unlike lock picks, the well-armed detective always carried. 

And so when the supermarket pointed out that unless Beeches was part of the deal the land would be next to useless, she told them she might be able to persuade her neighbours. She had used a few spells which failed to prevent the previous owners from selling to the Coates before the supermarket could even put in an offer. Then, when the house was still being renovated, she had easily gained entry at night, using magic, of course, and had found the tunnels. She had interfered with some of the building work: a nail here, a screw there, a tile, a wire or a window catch. Slight adjustments that nobody would notice, some brought about by magic but leaving very little magical signature, and some simply done by hand. Then, once the Coates had moved in it was an easy matter to go into the tunnels, and send small tendrils of magic to nudge the damaged places. There had been no attempt to try to persuade them - she feared rejection would put them on their guard. 

'I thought nobody would know,' she said. 'I thought nobody would believe, or rather that they would believe it was incomprehensible and shrug their shoulders. And move out. And that would solve all my problems.'

'You almost succeeded,' said James. 'Even when magic users investigated they thought what they could sense was just part of Oxford's background magic. The tunnels are quite deep and your magic was not strong. Why did you let yourself be seen? It was chasing you that led to Dr Coates' fall and death. We can understand that you didn't intend to hurt him, but you did wish him ill, and your actions led to his death, so...' He stopped, unwilling to tell her how shaky the law was at this point. The CPS might very well refuse to go ahead with any case. 

'It was a nice night,' she said. 'I didn't want to go into the tunnels again. Dark, dirty places. I thought I could work from outside, and it never occurred to me that he might come out.' Her voice lowered and quivered as she added, 'I didn't even know until we got back from Scotland. I'm truly sorry for what happened.'

Robbie thought she probably was, but that didn't help them to come to any kind of decision about charging her, about explaining to Innocent, or even telling Katie Coates for that matter.

Hermione was not indecisive at all. She used her phone to contact Ron and in a few moments Ron and Harry were in the small lounge. When she understood that they were aurors, English aurors at that, Dolly Mbanefo fell even further apart. Somehow or another they got her to write a confession that implicated money, supermarkets, tunnels and other mundane matters without ever mentioning magic as the underlying modus operandi. And then they arrested her.

The charge was using her magic to bring harm, and eventually death, to muggles, and Harry warned her curtly that the consequences could be severe. 

'But I'll help you prepare not a defence but a plea of mitigation,' said Hermione as they reclaimed Dolly's wand from James, handcuffed her, and apparated away.

'Poor woman,' said Robbie, speaking for all three of them. Her face, as the aurors had made ready to apparate, had been accepting and despairing. He hoped her punishment would not be too severe, although he felt she should suffer for the death she had caused and the wizarding world was more likely to be able to deliver that punishment and suffering than his own. 

He and Hermione left a rather unhappy James to tell Professor Mbanefo, on his return, that his wife, having confessed to being behind the so-called hauntings at Beeches, had escaped custody and disappeared. They had agreed that James would say the police were looking for her. He did not need to add that it was highly unlikely she'd be found. 

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They strolled across to Beeches, and as they went, Robbie contacted Jean Innocent by phone to let her know the culprit had indeed been identified, an arrest had taken place but the prisoner had escaped. 

The Chief Superintendent reached the house just as they were explaining to a rather surprised Mrs Coates that her rather nice, quiet neighbour had been lurking in tunnels beneath their feet and setting off traps and tricks she had put in place while the building was not lived in.

'So you see, Auntie Katie,' said Hermione, 'it wasn't anything supernatural. Just a desperate woman wanting you to move so that she could sell her house and be assured of some money.'

'Her tricks were very convincing,' said Katie, a little doubtfully, as Innocent joined them. 

'Yes, well,' said Hermione, 'she studied architecture and civil engineering in Cairo. She wasn't just a pretty face.'

'Pretty face but murderous, too,' said Innocent. 'I have no idea how she escaped three of you, and I hope every effort is being made to find her.' She glowered at Robbie.

'We were remiss, ma'am,' he admitted. 'She seemed so genuinely sorry and I actually believe she was, but obviously not enough to face a court to make amends for her actions. We didn't handcuff her.' He didn't say that this was because the aurors had done so. 

His boss glowered again but sighed. 'No good crying over spilt milk,' she said, in a tone that suggested there might be a great deal of mopping up to do when there were no members of the public present. 

They chatted to Mrs Coates for a while, though everyone refused an offer of tea. Hermione elicited the information that her aunt might keep the house for a while, because it was what Matt would have wanted, but that she thought in the end it would be too big.

'I suppose', she said, rather wistfully, 'that Professor Mbanefo might sell The Lodge, now. I could buy that instead.'

'I think you might still have trouble with the supermarket people,' said Jean. 'If you want to stay in Oxford and remain at the same school there are a few nice small houses near us that might suit you. But we'll leave that for the moment.'

'Until after the funeral, anyway,' said Hermione. She checked the arrangements, promised to attend, and left. Jean and Katie must have assumed she had her own car. Robbie knew that once she was out of sight she would apparate. He hoped she was out of sight of everyone; the last things they needed were any more rumours of supernatural incidents at Beeches. 

His phone rang: James, saying he'd explained to the professor, who was confused and distressed and angry in about equal measures. 'But he isn't sure who to be angry with,' he said. 'And before he decides it's me, I'm leaving.'

'I need a word with my sergeant,' Robbie told the two women. 'I'll walk across and meet him.' Without looking to Jean for approval he simply left, going straight out of the front door and towards the path that led to The Lodge. 

James was already near the stables. He smiled at Robbie. 'One vanished witch, one disgruntled professor, and presumably one relieved widow, ' he said. 

'I think the Chief Superintendent is unsure whether to be as disgruntled as the professor or just pleased for her friend,' said Robbie, smiling back. 'And we've solved another case, courtesy of aurors and wizards.'

'And witches,' James reminded him.

'And witches,' said Robbie, solemnly, 'and owls, and boys in boathouses, and secret tunnels and heaven knows what else.'

James grinned broadly, his narrow face lighting up. 'But you're getting to like it,' he said, and it wasn't a question. 

Robbie looked at him and without conscious thought they ended up in a hug. Then Robbie, careless of where they were, tilted his face and invited a kiss. It was forthcoming, and the two men lost themselves in the pleasure of the moment. 

A cough brought them to themselves and they sprang apart. Jean Innocent was standing outside the front door. The path where Robbie and Jamie stood was in direct line of sight.

'I didn't see that,' she said, sternly. 'If I had seen it, I'd have had to say something about behaviour on duty appropriate to your station.'

'But you didn't see anything. The light is fading,' said Katie, behind her. 

'And we aren't on duty; we finished the case and we've put in more than enough hours today,' muttered Robbie. But he didn't say it loudly enough for Innocent to hear. 

'As I said,' said Innocent, 'I didn't see anything. I'll see you two in my office tomorrow morning, though, about the laxity concerning handcuffing prisoners. Not about anything I didn't see tonight.'

They assured her they would be there, thanked her for something not actually mentioned, and wished everyone goodnight. 

'Do you think we ought to speak to William/' Robbie asked as they headed to the car. He felt a bit strange wondering about courtesy to a ghost, but decided that it might be the least strange thing about the whole case.

'No, he's forgotten about us by now, I should think,' said James. 'And if anyone saw us we might find it hard to explain what we were doing in the boathouse...'

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'So that's you two out of the closet,' said Draco, when they'd finished telling him about the case and the immediate aftermath.

'Yes,' said Robbie, 'but she did say she didn't see anything. I think it might be a bit like that American thing of don’t ask; don't tell.'

'But you weren't doing anything illegal,' said Draco, puzzled, as usual, by muggle ethics.

'Not illegal, no, but entirely inappropriate under the circumstances,' said Robbie.

'Imagine if two of your teachers at Hogwarts were seen kissing near the front door,' said James, in an effort to explain.

Draco grinned. 'That would have been the subject for delicious blackmail for a long time,' he said. 'You know, I could deal with Innocent's memory for you, wipe just that bit. She wouldn't realise there was any loss, and you'd be back in your safe closet with your professional propriety intact.'

'Thanks,' said James, 'but I think I'd as soon stay out, now that we're out. She won't do anything in the way of censuring us, and it might be easier if a few people knew.' He looked at Robbie.

'Yes,' said Robbie,' I think we've hidden long enough. We can let a few close friends into the secret.' He felt thrilled that James was willing to be known to be with him. Thrilled and proud. 

'Besides,' said James, 'we're still in the magical closet. And I hope it will be a very long time before the door to that one opens.'

Draco smiled, a doubtful sort of smile, as if he knew something. Robbie wondered how long they could keep James' magic from the people they knew well. And of course those were virtually all police. Still, that was a worry for another day. 

End.


End file.
